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“You coming tonight?” I repeat. “To some, that might sound like an invitation.” I look at Lisa, who looks about ready to burst into laughter. “Did that sound like an invitation to you?”
Elbow on the table, chin in hand, she looks up at the most gorgeous man on this entire planet.
“Yeah, it kinda did. Sorry, Enzo.”
Last night, aside from asking me, twice, to stay, he didn’t seem fussed or flustered. I’d lain in bed hours after leaving the bar, picturing his expression, scrutinizing every word. And had come to the conclusion he thought of me the same way he always had, as Devon’s little sister.
But the chill that shoots up my back now tells a different story. Still calm and cool as you please, despite the fact that everyone is staring. But with just a tinge of . . . something more.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Lisa. It was an invitation. And one I very much hope Chari will accept.”
His eyes never stray from mine.
Good lord. He’s so hot it should be a criminal offense.
“Of course I’ll be there,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
My words sound casual, if not my tone, which I’ll take as a win. Because honestly, I’m finding it hard to put a coherent thought together.
“Good.”
He winks.
Which isn’t that unusual. Enzo DeLuca has winked at girls before. He even winked at me when we were younger. So why does this time feel different?
Because I’m losing it, that’s why.
“See you tonight.”
“Later, Lisa. Hope you can make it too,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads out. People flock toward him, some bold enough to ask questions, others just there to watch. I even catch one person snapping a photo. I can’t imagine living like that, under such constant scrutiny.
“What. The hell. Was that?” Lisa says.
Her words start to wake me from my stupor. I blink rapidly, then say, “Your omelette is getting cold.”
“You’re talking about myomelette?” She lowers her voice, perhaps remembering we’re in a public restaurant, one Enzo might not have left yet. “As your best friend for life, I’m going to say one thing and then we can drop it.”
This should be good.
“Either you totally lied or are so out of practice you really don’t realize it, but Enzo DeLuca wants to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you.”
I should not be excited by her words.
“And you are obviously not ‘over’ your crush,” she whispers, “even if you did a decent job of hiding it.”
“That was two things,” I point out.
Lisa looks over my shoulder, presumably at the topic of our conversation, and then glances back at me. Was he gone? Or was he still surrounded by legions of hangover-less fans of Angel’s Brew and Angel Pale Ale and Angel Red Wine and every other Angel product he’d put out over the past few years?
“One thing, two things. Whatever. Either way, you’d better figure your shit out by tonight, because I think you’ll have a decision on your hands.”
“Which is?”
“How ready are you to get back in the saddle?”
We both know my last breakup was harsh enough for me to swear off men for a long, long time. But this is different. This is Enzo.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, and try to believe it. “He’s leaving Sunday.”
